


a fire in you that would never go out

by victoria_p (musesfool)



Series: beggars would ride [7]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe, F/M, Genderswap, girl!Sam
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2007-09-28
Updated: 2007-09-28
Packaged: 2017-10-02 18:34:30
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,049
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9401
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/musesfool/pseuds/victoria_p
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p><cite>Take off your dress and stockings; / Sit in the deep chair before the fire. / I will warm your feet in my hands; / I will warm your breasts and thighs with kisses.</cite></p>
            </blockquote>





	a fire in you that would never go out

**Author's Note:**

> Obviously, this is an AU where Sam is and always has been a girl. Also obviously, title and summary come from the Rexroth poem quoted at the end. Thanks to Mousapelli for handholding and Luzdeestrellas for betaing. 3,930 words

It's not that they don't fight. They have arguments and pissing contests, and they've both gone too far on more than one occasion, crossed the line from funny to hurtful without even breaking stride, Sam even more often than Dean, truth be told. They spend nearly every waking moment (and most of their sleeping moments) together, and since Wyoming, they've been going non-stop--exorcising demons in Peoria, Pottawatomie, Bozeman, night after night of Latin and holy water and oily black smoke invading Sam's dreams, vague memories of her own possession occasionally seeping through to keep her awake and nauseated for hours. They break up that routine once or twice--there's a kelpie in Baton Rouge, and some vampires in San Antonio, just to spice things up, not to mention the sniping they do at each other, almost more dangerous in its distractions than any of the creatures they're facing.

They need a break before they break each other, but neither is willing to take one, though Sam's pretty sure Dean's reasons aren't the same as hers. In the end, the reasons don't matter as much as the results, and the results are frayed nerves and chilly silences.

They're in Pascagoula now, trying to figure out what's killing the kids of Arlington Heights Elementary School. Dean's always more brittle during jobs involving kids, and the oppressive humidity isn't helping. They're dressed up in suits, have fake little child protective services badges, and Sam feels like she's going to pass out from the heat and lack of sleep, and the no-longer-familiar feel of pantyhose clinging to her legs, making them itch when she can't scratch.

The interviews don't go well, the teachers suspicious and the kids nervous, even with Dean ladling on the charm. When they talk to the principal, Sam screws up their cover story, blurts out _reporter_ instead of _social worker_, a stupid rookie mistake she hasn't made since she was sixteen, which has Dean shooting murderous glances at her as they're escorted off the property by the grim-faced security guard, the principal's invective ringing in their ears. To top it off, Sam thinks she might have forgotten to put deodorant on, or maybe it's just too fucking hot to be wearing a suit.

Before Dean can say anything, she goes on the attack. The best defense is a good offense, after all. He taught her that. "Well, that was a complete waste of time," she says, running a hand through her hair. It's slicked back with some of Dean's hair gel, and she hates the way it feels sticky under her fingers. "Any more bright ideas, brain trust? Maybe a plan that doesn't get us thrown out of the building before we can even start investigating?"

"Maybe if we had a little more to go on," Dean says, trailing off into silence, louder than any accusation would be, launching an attack of his own, from an unexpected direction. His jaw moves like he's chewing on a lecture she doesn't want to hear.

"What's that supposed to mean?" The words are out before she can stop them.

"I thought you were the smart one, Sammy. Let me spell it out for you. It means that maybe we needed a little more information about what's going on here than what you dug up."

"I don't see you helping out, Dean. Research not manly enough for you?"

"Like you'd let me touch your damn computer. The amount of time you spend hunched over that freaking thing, I'd have thought you'd have it all figured out already. I swear to God, Sam, it's like you're plugged into it. I keep expecting to find you trailing cables or something."

She sucks in a breath, feeling like she's just been punched in the gut. "What?"

"The porn isn't really that much better than what you get on cable, either."

"Is that what you think--" She stops, throws up a hand. "What the fuck ever. I'm going to the library."

"Good. Maybe you'll dig up something useful. These kids are dying--"

"Do you think I don't know that? Do you think I don't care?"

"I don't know what you're thinking anymore, Sammy, and right now, I don't really care. We've got a job to do, and you need to get your head in the game."

"I need--" She stares at him in disbelief, and not just because he sounds scarily like Dad. The words tumble around in her mouth, I made a mistake, I'm sorry, but any desire to apologize is long gone under the barrage of accusations. What comes out is, "Fuck you."

"Get in line." His voice is hard, no humor in it at all.

She flips him off and stalks away, too angry to pay attention to where she's going.

After wandering the streets aimlessly for a while, she finds a Starbucks and gets the biggest iced coffee they have, and spends some time trying to cool off. Someone's left a recent copy of _The New Yorker_ on a chair, and she reads through it slowly, trying to get her focus back. She knows he didn't mean it the way it sounded, knows he's angry because kids are being killed and they're no closer to solving it than they were yesterday, and her mistake isn't making their investigation any easier. She knows he knows she's spending her miniscule free time researching ways to save his soul--she'd stop hunting and devote the next eight months to that research if he'd let her--but right now she thinks she could easily kill him herself. With her bare hands.

A second iced coffee in hand, she leaves Starbucks for the cool, quiet dimness of the library, loses herself in the stacks for what feels like twenty minutes but turns out to be three hours, reading up on local history and folklore, the musty old book smell familiar and soothing. Her phone rings, but she shuts it off, not ready to deal with Dean just yet.

The librarian helps with the microfiche, crinkly yellowed copies of the local newspaper, and, when the air conditioning goes out for a few minutes, an illicit glass of sweet tea that sweats all over Sam's notebook. By the time the tea is nothing but a few drops of melted ice on the bottom of the tall plastic cup, Sam's had more caffeine than is probably healthy, and is pretty sure she has the answer. To the problem here in Pascagoula, anyway.

She thinks about calling, about apologizing, but she can't bring herself to do it yet. She can't stand it when Dean is mad at her, hates the sight of disappointment in his eyes, the sound of it in his voice, but she also can't believe he accused her of looking at porn instead of working the job. Instead of working on saving his ass. Thinking about it pisses her off all over again, and she decides to walk, work her anger out in distance and time. The library is a couple of miles from the motel, but even in her dressy black pumps, that shouldn't be a problem.

She doesn't stop to think about the weather, except to note that it's hotter than hell; the analogy doesn't hold any humor for her anymore, makes her queasy when she thinks about Dad, trading himself for Dean and then clawing his way back out, about Dean, willingly consigning himself to eternal torment for her. She's going to figure out a way to save him--she has to believe that, or she'll never be able to keep going, not on this walk back to the King's Inn, or with the rest of the time Dean's got left. She can't think about anything beyond that.

She's not paying attention, looks up in surprise at the first spattering of rain against her hair. The storm's been threatening for days, last vestiges of a late-season hurricane blowing itself out along the coast, and the sky, gravid with gray-green clouds which are split by lightning every few seconds, opens, rain coming down in sheets.

By the time she gets back to the motel, she's soaked to the skin, she has to pee, and she wants nothing more than a hot shower and a foot rub. She swipes a hand across her eyes, trying to clear some of the water away. There's a long black smear on the web between her thumb and index finger when she fumbles in her bag for the key to the room. She can only imagine what her face looks like, and her hands shake as she unlocks the door. She lets it swing closed behind her and stands for a moment, dripping onto the ancient, stained carpet, shivering in the air conditioning. She doesn't want to fight, but the vestiges of her bad mood linger, making her brace for one.

Dean's sitting at the desk, weapons laid out for cleaning, but he's not actually working on them.

He jumps up and stops, stares at her for a long moment like he doesn't know what to do, like she's some mystery he can't solve, and she gasps softly around the ache in her chest, hard knot of anger finally dissolving completely. She wants to say she's sorry, she lost track of time--something to wipe that look off his face--but her teeth are chattering and she can't push words past them yet. His uncertainty melts into relief, and that makes her want to cry, because she was angry, but she didn't mean to make him worry. She'd just forgotten to turn her phone back on. She's working hard to convince him her running days are over--he wants to believe, especially now, but her track record makes it harder than it should be.

She peels off her suit jacket--it's probably ruined, but she can't bring herself to care, not after the miserable day she's had--and makes a production of hanging it in the closet to dry, afraid the tears will spill over if she doesn't regain control.

He grabs a towel from the bathroom and takes a step towards her, but instead of bundling her into it like she's expected (like she _wants_), he holds it out to her, an offering she's free to refuse. She doesn't.

The towel is rough and thin against the pads of her fingers, and it won't absorb much, but she rubs it over her hair anyway, the sweet scent of Dean's hair gel lingering in her nostrils.

"Dean."

He takes her hand, leads her to the easy chair, and she sits, the cold wet cotton of her shirt clinging to her back, making her shiver. The air conditioner is chugging away, loud between their silences.

He doesn't ask any questions, kneels down and takes her right foot in hand, slips the shoe--a beautiful, black patent leather pump--off and sets it down next to the chair, then does the same with her left.

The shoes had appeared a couple of weeks ago, a gleaming gift Dean had left for her on his pillow, there when she'd gotten out of the shower, and this is the first chance she's had to wear them. She's always had a weakness for black patent leather; one of her earliest memories is of a pair of mary janes she'd wanted so badly she'd thrown a tantrum right there in the store. Dad had rarely indulged her temper, but that time, he had. She'd worn those shoes until they fell apart. She hopes the rain hasn't ruined this pair completely.

Dean reaches up under her skirt and she raises her hips, lets him roll the pantyhose--also soaked and clinging--down her legs and off. He drops them on the floor and raises her foot to his lips, presses a gentle kiss to her instep.

"Dean," she says, trying to wriggle out of his grip. "I'm all sweaty and disgusting."

He doesn't seem to care. He closes his eyes and breathes her in, sweaty feet and damp skin and all. His hands are gentle on her ankles, but firm, rubbing slow circles in the hollows, and then he kisses her there, as well, lips dry and breath warm against her wet, chilled skin. He shifts forward, sliding his hands and lips up her calves, first one leg, then the other, like he's memorizing her, inch by inch. As if he doesn't know her like that already, by touch and taste and smell, blindfolded or from a thousand miles away.

He buries his nose behind her knee, and she giggles. She's always been ticklish there, and he knows it. She can feel his mouth curve into a smile, and she expects him to lean in and kiss her lips now, or at least to say something--he likes to talk, likes to tell her what he's going to do to her, how much he likes doing it, and she loves hearing it, occasionally answers back with some talk of her own. But he doesn't.

He sits back on his heels for a moment, head cocked and mouth pursed as if he's thinking, and then he leans forward, unbuttons her no-longer-crisp white blouse and peels her out of it quickly, efficiently. Her bra follows, draped limply over the back of the chair, the lace looking sad and dingy against the vibrant teal upholstery.

She shivers, skin prickling as cool air hits it, and he covers her breasts with his hands, the touch sending a shock of heat through her. She squirms a little, and he smiles again, but his face is serious, intent, when he kisses the curve of her breast, rests his mouth against her chest, breathing in time with the beat of her heart. She threads her hands through his hair, the short brush of it tickling her palms, cradles his skull tenderly, every notch and hollow of it familiar, loved. The thought of losing Dean makes her sick, makes her feel like the whole world is spinning out of orbit, and only the solidity of him under her fingers reminds her that gravity is still in effect.

He moves slowly, as if afraid of startling her, tongue hot and wet against her nipple, and then his breath, cool enough to make her shiver. She tightens her fingers in his hair, chokes out the short syllable of his name, thick heat pooling between her thighs.

The rain drums hard on the air conditioner, and the windows rattle from the force of the wind, but she can't pay attention to the weather when he's kissing his way down her belly; she tries to hold still, but can't when he blows a raspberry against her skin, warm now from his mouth and hands.

His hands land on the waistband of her skirt and slide around to unzip it. He speaks for the first time, voice hoarse from disuse, or possibly emotion. "Up." She raises her hips again, automatic, and he slides the skirt down, the polyester lining cool against her skin.

The skirt is gray gabardine, same as the jacket--the suit is technically a year or two out of style, but classic enough in cut that it doesn't really matter. The tags had still been on it when she'd found it on the rack at Goodwill. She hates it, hates dressing up and pretending to be a federal agent or a doctor or reporter, hates the reminder that she's fucked up every bit of normal she's ever had. As Dean runs his hands up her legs again, skirt dumped carelessly on the carpet next to her stockings and shoes, she prays she hasn't ruined him, too.

"Sam," he says, calling her out of her reverie, making sure she's here, with him, as his thumbs caress her hipbones before hooking into the elastic of her panties and sliding them down. He presses his face to the crease of her thigh, takes a deep breath. She can smell herself, earthy and rich, obvious how much she wants him, and God, she's so easy for him, always has been. She squirms a little, trying to get him to shift over, put his mouth where she wants it most, and he laughs against her skin, wise to her tricks.

He does it, though, drops kisses along the insides of her thighs, and then strokes along the slick, hot flesh of her cunt with his tongue, eyes closed like she's the best thing he's ever tasted. She slides down in the chair, drapes her legs over his shoulders and cants her hips up to meet his mouth. Her own eyes flutter closed, the better to savor the sensations washing through her, one hand coming to rest in his hair again, the other skimming up over her belly to play with her nipples.

All the tension in her body sharpens, honing in on the place between her thighs where Dean is working, lips and tongue and teeth generating heat and need and pleasure intense as the storm tearing the sky apart outside. She unravels under his tongue, bliss washing over her, the heavy pulse of orgasm beating with the sound of his name.

She flops bonelessly into the chair as he leans back, grinning smugly and licking his glistening lips.

"Come on," he says, pulling her up and maneuvering her onto the bed, still unmade; the sheets are cool and dry and smell of them--familiar, comforting, as close to home as they have.

She lies back and watches as he slips out of his clothes, as quick and efficient as when he field strips the weapons, the light gilding his skin. She opens herself to him and he fits himself between her thighs, warm now, pliant beneath him. He's already rolling a condom on, always careful, even when she tells him he doesn't have to be, and then he's pushing inside her.

He fucks her slowly, with long deliberate strokes that bury him deep inside her, and she tightens around him, never wants to let him go. She can see the iron control he's exerting, feel the tension in his muscles--he's being so gentle, so careful, and she knows he's afraid she'll run again, even now. She can't explain that she hadn't--wouldn't--that nothing he can do or say will make her go, and that normal is a dream she'd stopped chasing when she turned around and rescued him in that orchard in Indiana. He never believes her when she says it, though, so she doesn't anymore. Instead, she wraps her arms around him, presses her face into his shoulder, and nips at his collarbone. She licks at the sweat beginning to sheen his skin, salt sharp on her tongue, the strongest protection against evil she knows, right here in her arms. She snaps her hips up to meet his, trying to urge him to move faster, to break that control, trying to tell him she understands, she's sorry, she'll never leave him again, and he'd better not ever leave her.

He gets her off again, knows exactly where to touch, and when, to make her come apart, and when she does, body pulsing with it, he lets himself go, pounds into her, one hand tight on her hip, the other shifting her thigh up so he can go deeper, find some peace, some joy, inside her. He comes shuddering in her embrace, her name on his lips, and when he collapses on top of her, she strokes a hand over his sweaty hair, kisses the top of his head, thumbs the swollen bow of his mouth.

"I'm sorry," she whispers, and he raises his head, eyes the green of hope and promises.

"Don't."

"I'm sorry," she says again, ignoring him. "I did do the research, but you know my first priority is always gonna be you." He rolls away from her, and she feels cold all over again, follows him, nudges herself into the heat of his body, tucking her head under his chin. "I needed to think, and I was doing some research, and I lost track of time." Which is only a half-truth--she's aware of every passing second, hears the tick of the clock with every breath and beat of Dean's heart. But she'd needed time to put herself back together, knows he'd needed it, too. She'd lost track of the weather, but she's always aware of time, now. "I wasn't--I wasn't going anywhere. I just--I'm tired, Dean, and I'm scared." She tucks her head under his chin, presses a soft kiss to the notch between his collarbones.

"I know, baby. I--It's okay."

That's as close as he'll come to admitting he's scared too, and she knows he has to be, four months down and they haven't found anything but rumors and lies; anyone silver-tongued enough to talk themselves out of a deal with this demon hasn't left the tale behind.

"I think I know what's killing the kids here." An offering, since he won't let her apologize.

"Yeah?"

"Yeah. You ever heard of a mormo?"

His brow furrows in concentration. "Like a lamia, right?"

"Yeah. They go after naughty children. Well, whoever they determine to be naughty. None of those kids deserved to die like that."

"And no more of them will. You know how to kill it?"

She grins, knowing he'll like this part. "Silver bullet to the heart."

He kisses her forehead. "My favorite."

"I know." And then she gets serious again. "Dean--"

He brushes a thumb over the arch of her cheek. "You should wash your face. You look like a raccoon. So much for waterproof, huh?"

"Dean." Frustrated now, insistent, the rhythm of this conversation as familiar as breathing, and a thousand times less useful.

"There's still time, Sammy. We'll figure it out. If you can't do it, no one can." His belief in her is all that keeps her going sometimes, and she can't give up hope while he still has some. He kisses the top of her head, then shoves her shoulder. "Seriously, wash your face."

When she comes out of the bathroom, scrubbed clean and steadier than she's been all day, the wind's picked up, and Dean is sacked out in the bed, porn on TV.

"I set the alarm," he says, yawning. "We can have dinner, and head out around ten to find the mormo. It's probably laired up near the school."

She nods, then looks skeptically at the television. "Dude, we just had awesomely hot sex, better than anything you'll ever see in a porno. You're not even up for another round yet. Why are you even bothering?"

"I'm up," he says, though his voice is slurred with sleep. "I could be up."

"Uh huh." She crawls into bed beside him, slings a leg over his and curls close.

"And anyway, it's the principle of the thing. You don't pass up free porn, Sam. Didn't I teach you better than that?"

"I guess you did." She laughs around the ache in her chest, so full of love for him she thinks she might burst. "Storm's supposed to stick around a few days," she says, pressing a kiss to the scar on his shoulder.

He yawns. "You wanna ride it out here?"

"Yeah."

"Okay." He pulls her close, the two of them snuggling under the covers like they used to as kids, and she's never felt safer. She wants to tell him, but from the easy way he's breathing, already asleep, she thinks he already knows.

end

~*~

**Runaway **

There are sparkles of rain on the bright  
Hair over your forehead;  
Your eyes are wet and your lips  
Wet and cold, your cheek rigid with cold.  
Why have you stayed  
Away so long, why have you only  
Come to me late at night  
After walking for hours in wind and rain?  
Take off your dress and stockings;  
Sit in the deep chair before the fire.  
I will warm your feet in my hands;  
I will warm your breasts and thighs with kisses.  
I wish I could build a fire  
In you that would never go out.  
I wish I could be sure that deep in you  
Was a magnet to draw you always home.

~Kenneth Rexroth

***


End file.
